Mudbloody Half-Truths

Today, my sister who lives in Mt. Pleasant is traveling down to Grand Rapids to get her hair done. Well, my half-sister, that is. Before my dad met my mom, he was married to a different lady, of whom he made most sensuous love and created a lass named Jill. The typical story ensues: they divorced, he met my mom, the goods in the woods, and finally, the origin of this post.

When I take the time to ponder it, it makes absolute sense as to why she is called my "half-sister." Half of her genetics, which flow just the same in my body, are interspersed with a half of somebody's who technically isn't related to me. It's in the math, it really is. But when my throat fails to exhale the "half-sister" claim whenever I introduce her or speak of her to anybody, I wonder, "Are the half of my genetics shared with her stepping up and laying the smack down on social and biological restraints which deem her half of mine? Or am I just too lazy to make that three-syllable claim unless somebody inquires further?" It really is a bitch having to say things like, "my half-sister..." or "guess what my ex-step-dad did?" Unless the term in question ends in "in-law," I'd hardly say any of these problems would persist if divorce wasn't such an issue anyways.

Blood is blood. It's all blue inside, red outside. Simple colors, undoubtedly, carry very little weight in an argument that a half-sister is still a full sister, but I suppose if I were a nineteenth century American civilian, I'd be right alongside the rest of the evil white men in claiming that every mulatto is just as much of a slave as a sun-baked Kenyan. To me, it's all just the same. I wish I could divulge more into this, and turn it into some literary journalistic piece embedded with great research, but I would hardly know what to start looking for. My knowledge, my scholastic endeavors, are far less tainted by science than they are the urge to express some perplexing and difficult, yet so blaring and obvious fact that I know full well to be true. Opinions, opinions, opinions, onions are white, onions are purple.

Where I am with school, although I absolutely despise various components of the education system, is where I'm certain I should be: studying writing. That's not a half-truth. A half-truth is me saying "school is the only way to make something bigger of your life." Statistics prove that people who graduate college are more "successful" in their endeavors. But "successful in their endeavors" doesn't always mean the Americanized, "let's go out and get a job and make lots of money!" All people don't aspire money.

I know that one of the most prominent subjects of our conversation with my "half-sister" today will be how I'm doing in school. I suppose, in my modernistic views, I think of a functioning family as one who asks these sort of questions and is honestly concerned and considerate of these aspects of another family member's life. I half-doubt that a half-sister could be half as much concerned. I know she fully cares, and that's just great! Go life.